


Black Turn to Red

by jaimeykay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-19
Updated: 2012-07-19
Packaged: 2017-11-10 06:42:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/463354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaimeykay/pseuds/jaimeykay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alastair told Dean that a part of him was left in the pit. Dean's thinking he may be right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Turn to Red

Dean wakes up one morning to the taste of blood on his tongue.

It’s certainly a familiar taste, the tangy copper –

_there you go, just take it in – whoops, you’ve got some dripping out there – just let it slip down, nice and smooth. Oh, come on, you gotta keep it down there, kiddo. I know, it takes some getting used to, but everyone always does, it’s good, you’ll see –_

but it’s not a taste he wants to remember. He quietly slips out of bed as to not wake Sam, and ducks into the bathroom, turning on the light once he’s clicked the door closed. Scooting closer to the mirror, he opens his mouth to see if there’s a wound he missed – maybe he accidentally bit his tongue or cheek while he was sleeping –

Blood starts to drop down his chin, and Dean grabs some toilet paper to wipe it off, but more blood replaces it, and more, and more –

It’s not slowing down.

Dean doesn’t even know where to begin applying pressure – nothing hurts, and he’s not even sure where the blood is coming from. He keeps pulling at the roll of toilet paper frantically as he stares at his reflection, eyes huge and face pale, trying desperately not to throw up as the tissue and the blood clot together and stick to his tongue. 

Sam finds him slumped on the floor in a pool of blood.

 

:::

 

The blood has stopped gurgling out of his mouth, but his teeth are still stained red and Sam’s got his mouth pried open, peering around with a strange expression on his face.

“I don’t see any cuts or anything,” Sam says with a shrug, letting go of his jaw and leaning back against the wall. 

Dean works his jaw and rubs his mouth, trying not to look like he’s panicking. His tongue can’t help but dart around, dipping into the grooves of his teeth and sampling the blood that’s pooled there. He has the distant feeling that he should be feeling nauseous about that, but he’s not, and that somehow makes him feel even sicker.

Sam grabs a cup and fills it to the brim with water, then hands it to Dean. He nods gratefully, taking a big gulp and spitting it into the sink. Both he and Sam stare at the red-tinged water for a moment before Dean blasts the faucet, sending the water swirling down the drain. 

It takes a couple glasses before Dean calls it quits and picks up his toothbrush. Sam’s quiet but commanding presence is creeping him out a little. He shoots his brother a look, who raises an eyebrow but backs off with his hands raised. 

He takes a deep breath when Sam eases the door closed behind him, and Dean coughs up a little residual blood that trickled down his throat.

He’s on his knees in front of the toilet a few seconds later. 

 

:::

 

Dean wakes up the next morning and before he opens his eyes, he can feel something sliding out of his nose. He sniffs and coughs as the liquid rushes back up his nose, and one of the chairs slides quickly across the floor as Sam gets up.

“Dean?”

Damn, his nose itches. “Fucking nosebleed,” he groans. “Give me a tissue or something, will you?”

“It’s not blood, man.”

Dean pries his eyes open as they nearly cross trying to look at his nose. “What?”

“It’s not red. It’s clear.”

“Snot?”

“…I don’t think so.” 

Dean hauls himself out of bed and goes back to the mirror. Sam’s right, it’s not snot –

_the human brain’s a funny thing, kiddo. When I tear apart your scalp and rip away the dura mater and drain the cerebrospinal fluid, I get to pick at the meat that’s left. You’ll be amazed what the brain can withstand before it -_

Dean shivers and wipes his nose, holding his sleeve against his nostrils. “Brain juice,” he says, muffled.

“You haven’t hit your head or anything, have you?” 

“Dude, when? I’ve been with you the whole time!”

Sam sighs and tugs Dean’s arm away from his nose, and he can feel the fluid start to drain again. Sam stares at his nose before turning completely befuddled eyes into Dean’s.

“Just go lay down,” Sam says finally, giving him a little push. “I’ll check it out.”

It takes three hours before Sam slams his laptop closed angrily, shaking his head. “I can’t find anything.”

“So you don’t know if I’m dying or not?” Dean says dully, still lying flat on his bed despite the fact that the cerebrospinal fluid has stopped dripping out of his nose – although he did entertain an hour when the CSF started flowing out of his ears.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Sam murmurs, not even bothering to answer Dean. But that’s okay, because Dean’s not really ready for the answer.

 

:::

 

A week goes by without any strange occurrences, and Dean’s almost gotten comfortable again.

Until he’s eating some eggs at a diner and finds one of his fingernails on his fork. 

He jumps out of the booth and tries not to yell as a blinding pain seems to explode on his right hand; one by one, his fingernails are being torn off and falling onto the floor.

Dean dimly hears screaming, but it sounds like the voice is being filtered underwater; maybe he’s the one that’s screaming, he can’t tell. He can’t seem to stop staring at his fingers, the empty nail beds gaping wide open as the blood bubbles and swells from the new wounds.

Someone’s grabbing him and tugging him away, and he follows, pliant, as he’s forced into a car. A cloth is quickly being wrapped around his hand and the spell is broken as soon as his fingers are hidden. Dean can’t help but recoil as the cloth quickly transforms into a bloody mess.

“What happened?” Sam demands, peeling out of the parking lot and throwing Dean against the passenger door as he swerves around the corner.

_fingernails are so sensitive, aren’t they, my boy? Such little things that can cause such anguish. What? You want them back? Maybe if you’re quiet, I’ll leave the other hand alone. You keep screaming like that, you’re going to cause a scene – but don’t stop, please don’t stop -_

“Dean!”

He closes his eyes and huddles against the wall. The pain feels different up here, somehow.

His fingernails are back once they return to the motel.

 

:::

 

Dean spends the next few days touching his fingernails constantly, just to make sure they’re still there. Rubbing the smooth surfaces is relaxing.

After another week or so, he wakes up to the feeling that he hasn’t slept enough, if at all, and he freezes in his bed once he senses another presence in the room. He almost settles again when he sees who it is.

“I haven’t dreamt about you in a long time,” Dean says.

“I’ve noticed,” Alastair replies, “I feel neglected, kiddo.” 

“I don’t need to. You’re dead. Gone.”

Alastair hums and leans back on the dresser, picking at his nails. “Is that what you think?”

“What, that you’re dead?”  

“No, that you don’t need to dream about me.”

Dean gives a sideways glance at Sam, who’s still under the blankets. Alastair waves a hand.

“He won’t wake up. It’s just you and me, my boy.”

“Of course it is. I’m dreaming.”

“You keep saying that.”

“You’re _gone_. It’s not like you could get in, anyway. Everything’s salted.”

Alastair raises an eyebrow and glances at the door, where a sliver of carpet is only slightly visible in the salt line.

“Sure about that?”

Breath caught in his chest, Dean jumps out of bed and legs it to the door – sure enough, there’s a break in the line.

_Sam did the salt lines, didn’t he?_

By the time Dean whirls around, Alastair is gone and the only sound he hears is his heartbeat in his ears.

 

:::

 

Dean waits until they’re in the car before he brings it up. 

“Did you do the salt lines last night?”

Sam gives him a strange look from the driver’s seat. “Of course I did. Why?”

“You didn’t notice the break?”

“Break? There wasn’t a break; I did them myself. I made sure.” 

Dean just shakes his head silently and leans back against the window.

“Why?”

Dean leans his forehead against the cool glass of the window and huffs a breath. “Nothing. Just a weird dream, I guess. Don’t worry about it.”

Sam is silent, and when Dean opens an eye slightly he can see Sam looking pensive.

 

:::

 

In Hell, Alastair was obsessed with Dean’s freckles. 

He’d spend meticulous hours, long and tedious, carving out each and every one with such precision that it had Dean squirming with anticipation. 

“Just fucking do it already!” he’d snarl, and Alastair would tsk at him softly and move even more slowly than before.

Sometimes this was worse than being torn apart.

_Just gotta keep still, kiddo. There’s an art to it, you know. Anyone can just take a knife and slice through the layers of skin and sinew and muscle – make someone feel unbearable pain, to scream, to cry, to beg. It’s truly beautiful when you can make someone depend on the pain, the agony. When they need it to go on. You’ll see. I’m going to teach you._

Dean would respond by spitting globs of bloody spit at Alastair’s face, snarling and foaming insult after insult. Alastair would sigh, almost sadly, before slitting him open and pulling his intestines out piece by piece. Sometimes, if he was feeling nice, he would simply wrap them around Dean’s throat and choke him with them instead of shoving them down his throat until he suffocated. 

“…up, man. Seriously. I will shave your fucking eyebrows off if you don’t wake up right now.”

There’s the smell of copper in his nose and he cringes, not quite ready to open his eyes yet. There’s a sigh above him, and a wet cloth is tossed carelessly on his face.

Dean tugs it off and wipes the water out of his eyes. “What is it this time?”

Sam simply moves out of the way so Dean can see the mirror and he looks at the red, seeping dots on his face, a twisted parody of chicken pox that he doesn’t find at all amusing.

“Be honest. Do you have any idea what would be causing this?” Sam looks angry, as if Dean is holding back why he’s been bleeding and oozing fluid and losing body parts. 

He is, kind of. 

_You feel it now, don’t you? Just lay back now. I’ll take care of you. Here, lift yourself up again, I can’t reach your Achilles tendon when you’re twisted up like that! Watch it, now. Watch it roll up like a window shade as it’s severed. There it goes -_

He keeps his feet hidden and cups his heels, taking a deep breath. He’s not sure how, but something from Hell has followed him here. And it’s not planning on killing him.

It wants to make him go insane with bloodlust.

Dean throws a fake grin on his face. “Nope. Not a clue, Sammy.”

 

:::

 

“So why didn’t you tell him?”

Dean’s eyes open slowly and he sighs. “Tell him what?”

This time, Alastair is sitting at their table, rolling a pencil around on the tabletop. “Oh, I don’t know. About me reenacting the lovely times we’ve spent together?”

“It’s not you,” Dean murmurs. “You’re dead.”

“C’mere, boy.”

Dean finally looks up. “What?”

“Come here. I’ll show you.”

Dean sits up reluctantly, rubbing his eyes and blinking Alastair back into focus. He’s smiling. 

“I’m still here, aren’t I?” Alastair smiles with mock sincerity. “Stop kidding yourself, now. “ He releases the pencil, which rolls to the end of the table precariously before slipping off. Dean’s eyes track it as he swallows nervously before glancing at Sam again.

“You always needed approval,” Alastair sighs, shaking his head. “From your father. From Sam. Pathetic, kiddo.”

“You certainly wanted me to beg for your approval, didn’t you?” Dean shot back but clamped his lips shut, unsure why he was still bothering to talk to a hallucination.

Alastair’s face transformed into an ugly grin. “What can I say, your desperate need for approval is just delicious. You couldn’t do a damn thing in the beginning without looking over your shoulder at me first, remember?”

_No no, not like that. Turn the knife a little to the left and slit it up – there you go. You’re a fast learner, aren’t you, puppet? Does this remind you of the good old days when your daddy gave a damn and actually bothered to teach you things? I delight knowing that the extent of your father-son bonding was your daddy teaching you how to tear things apart. Kind of what I’m doing with you right now. Does it feel familiar?_

_No. No, it wasn’t like that -_

_Sure it was, kiddo. Don’t waste your breath; you’re only lying to yourself. Now, let’s try this again, yes? This time, make sure you don’t cut him open too quickly; he’ll bleed out and the fun’s over far too early. I know you don’t have much practice on humans but I’ll get you there. Just do as I say. Be quiet, human. Dean can’t listen to what I’m saying if you’re screaming so loudly. I’ll have Dean cut out your vocal cords if you continue in this manner. You’re distracting him._

Dean feels bile crawl up his throat and he swallows, shaking his head.

“Oh, don’t be like that. I refuse to let the last ten years go to waste – I dedicated them completely to you and I’m not letting all that training be useless. Lucifer wanted you broken as soon as possible but I just couldn’t do it - I took my damn sweet time and savored every minute of it. Lucifer would get angry that I was dragging it out, that you were so damn stubborn, but I’m glad you were. So glad.”

“I’m done,” Dean mutters. “It’s over. You don’t have that hold over me anymore.”

“Mmm,” Alastair hums, and he stands up, walking over to the bed. Dean stares at him, wide-eyed, as Alastair kneels in front of him and slowly runs a hand through his hair.

He jerks at the movement, shocked that he can feel it.

“You sure about that?” Alastair whispers, and he’s gone before Dean can croak out his name.

 

:::

 

Dean refuses to sleep for the rest of the night, but he slams his eyes shut when Sam awakens and quietly gets out of bed to head to the bathroom. He wants to check the salt lines again but he’s not ready for that yet. 

He’s “awake” when Sam opens the door with a burst of steam, and he crawls out when Sam nods at him to have the bathroom. Dean’s half tempted to leave the door open, but he forces himself to close it, shivering a bit when it clicks shut.

“…ember what I was telling you the other day? He was talking to someone last night and trust me, there was no one else in the room. And the lines were broken again,” Dean hears Sam saying as he reaches for the doorknob to the bathroom after showering. He stops in his tracks and leans against the door, listening hard.

“No, I don’t know who. He didn’t say a name.” Pause. “I know. Trust me.” Another pause. “Yeah. I will. Thanks.”

Sam hangs up with a sigh, and Dean makes sure to wait a few more seconds before venturing outside.

“What’s up?” he asks, and if he sounds a little shaky, Sam doesn’t call him out on it.

Sam lifts his shoulders in casual indifference, slipping his phone into his back pocket. “Just catching up with Bobby.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean can play this casual game, too. “He have anything interesting to say?”

“Nah, not really,” Sam shrugs. “Just shooting the shit. You ready to go?”

“Yeah, sure,” Dean sighs, and he hitches his duffel over his shoulder. He is ready.

He’s going to keep an eye on Sam from now on. 

 

:::

 

It’s rare, but sometimes the thing they’re hunting isn’t supernatural at all.

Those hunts are the worst. 

Sam and Dean caught a guy knee-deep in entrails, mouth covered in blood, and Sam’s lip curls in disgust.

“That’s so messed up,” Dean mutters, but Sam’s already gone from his side and is sprinting to the guy, who is still nibbling happily on a rib, licking it clean before tossing it aside and grabbing another one.

Sam has him hauled up and pressed against a tree in seconds, and is up in the guy’s face, murmuring things so quietly that Dean can’t make them out. He can hear the barely contained anger in his tone, though, and that’s enough to make him withdraw a bit.

“Sick bugger, isn’t he?”

Dean jumps at the whisper in his ear and his face tightens. 

“Come on. Don’t tell me you would say no to putting him on your rack.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Don’t you think he deserves it? To do to him what he’s done to others?”

It’s tempting, sure. Dean wouldn’t say no to someone going to town on this son of a bitch.

“You agree.”

“Get away from me.”

Alastair sighs and cups his neck, gripping tightly as Dean tries to wrench himself out of the hold. He looks for Sam, who’s still got the murderer pinned, but he finds himself unable to say anything. 

“Just think about it, sport. It can be you and me again.”

“ _No._ ”

Alastair chuckles softly. “I recall hearing that word for thirty years. But you’ll give in. It’s part of you now, and it won’t let you go. And I’ve got all the time in the world to wait for you to realize that.”  

With another pat, Dean feels his presence disappear, and he sags.

Sam’s finally dragging the guy along, who’s whimpering and moaning as Sam pulls him so fast that he keeps stumbling. “I almost don’t want to turn him in,” Sam seethes, halting to a stop. “I want to take care of him myself,” he directs that to the guy, who sneers at him, bits of flesh clinging to his teeth.

“You and me, man,” he snarls. “You’ve got so much meat. I’d _feast_ upon you for so –“

He chokes as Sam slugs him, almost collapsing if he still weren’t being held by Sam’s other hand. “Shut the fuck up,” Sam growls. “You wouldn’t stand a chance against me. I’d _slaughter_ you.”

Dean’s eyes widen slowly at Sam’s threat, but he looks at the other guy, covered in an innocent’s blood and muscle, and his gaze narrows in to a tendon draped casually over a shoulder. God, Alastair’s right, this guy deserves to be sliced open, maybe dipped in acid, one inch at a time as his skin melts, or crucified upside down – 

He draws in a breath and shakes his head, realizing that he’s quivering with excitement. Sam’s staring at him oddly, eyebrow raised.

“You all right?”

“Mm hmm,” Dean mumbles, trying to calm himself down, closing his eyes briefly. He forces a grin and nods his head to the car. “What do you want to do with him?”

Sam looks back at the guy with revulsion. “Police station, I guess. Although,” he says, addressing the guy, “you somehow manage to worm your way out of there, and I’ll be on you. And I will _destroy_ you.”

Dean’s nodding and grinning, almost bouncing in eagerness, and again Sam is staring at him. He stops immediately and slouches before he turns to walk back to the car. 

If he’s close to that guy for one more second he’s going to fucking lose it.

 

:::

 

He waits until they stop for a bathroom break before he ducks out of the car and calls Castiel.

“Hey, uh. How’s it going?”

“What do you need, Dean.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I interrupting something?” Dean asked sarcastically.

“Yes, in fact.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Dean spits out, and he starts to hang up.

“No, hold on a minute,” Castiel hurries. “I’ve got some time for you. What’s going on?”

Dean hesitates as he leans against the wall out of the gas station.

“Have you heard anything about –“ he cuts himself off, at a complete loss of how to ask without making himself look utterly insane. 

“About what?”

“We killed Ruby, right? She can’t ever come back?”

There’s a pause. “No, she can’t. Dean, what’s this about?”

“I just want to make sure that demons really can’t come back. After they’re killed. Say, like, could Lucifer bring them back, for instance.”  

Castiel sighs. “Dean, you’re not making any sense. Who do you think has come back?”

“Was jus’, you know, wondering.”

“Dean. Is Sam there with you?”  

“No, he’s in the bathroom. Why?”

Dean jerks as the phone’s grabbed out of his hand, and watches as Sam brings it to his ear.

“I’m here. What’s this about?”

Dean fidgets uncomfortably as Sam's eyebrows furrow, and he wants to grab the phone away. 

“Okay. Thanks, Cas. I’ll handle it.” He ends the call and shoves Dean’s phone in his pocket before grabbing Dean’s arm and pulls him to the car.

“Sam –“

“No. Be quiet. Just get in the car and be quiet.”

Dean nods and gets inside.

He’s in trouble.

 

:::

 

Sam’s face gets more and more red as Dean tries to explain to him what was going on.

“And you didn’t think to tell me any of this? That Alastair has been visiting you in the middle of the night?”

“Well, I thought it was a dream –“

“Oh, fuck you. You’re such a liar. I just. I can’t fucking believe you.”

Dean sighs and rubs his eyes, and Sam deflates a bit, but he’s still clenching his teeth.

Dean thinks it may be more of a personal issue between Sam and Alastair, with Alastair managing to top him, rather than Sam being worried for Dean. 

That’s okay.

He’s worried enough for both of them.

 

:::

 

Hours later, after fruitless efforts to call other hunters, Sam has gotten desperate enough for information that he calls Castiel, but he’s not answering. He’s pacing, fists clenched, while Dean watches tiredly from his bed. He’s scratching idly at his arm, blinking heavily, and he’s almost asleep when he hears Sam squawk.

“Dean. Dean, stop!”

Dean pries his eyes open as Sam grabs at his arm and pulls it away. What is he –

Ah. He’s bleeding.

Again.

“You’re fucking tearing your skin off!” Sam nearly shrieks, and Dean attributes it to lack of sleep. 

Dean stares dumbly at his arm, marveling at the torn skin, the bloody sores, and the flaps still clinging to the open wounds. “How is he making me do this?” he asks. “We haven’t gone anywhere and the whole room is sealed.”

“Maybe he’s not making you,” Sam says, and there’s a hint of disgust that wouldn’t have been visible if Sam’s defenses weren’t completely shot. 

“I mean,” Dean continues, “The salt lines are getting broken and he’s getting in here, but you haven’t noticed. And he’s not even bothering to kill me – he’s just trying to fuck with me.”

He rolls over and grabs a towel, wrapping it around his bleeding arm, and he misses Sam’s blatant look of disbelief.

“Yeah,” Sam says. “Yeah, it is weird that the salt lines are getting broken. And that I haven’t heard anything. And neither has anybody else.”

“Maybe he’s putting you to sleep or something, like with what Cas can do,” Dean suggests, peeling back the towel to take a look.

“Maybe,” Sam answers dully. His shoulders slump a bit but he doesn’t say anything further, just resumes clacking at the laptop.

“You’re not going to find anything,” Dean says sourly. “I hardly think this is a regular enough occurrence for people to be talking about it on the internet.”

Sam grimaces. “Please, man. Just be quiet.” 

Dean does, because Sam needs to feel like he’s doing something. And if him being quiet and keeping his hands folded helps, he’ll keep doing it.

But his skin is itching.

Dean blinks and rubs his eyes, fatigue sweeping over him again. “Not gonna sleep tonight. Need to keep watch. See how the lines are getting broken.”

“You’re really tired, man. You won’t last five minutes.”

“Then you keep me awake.”

“No way. You really need to sleep, you’re starting to, uh.” 

“Starting to what?”

Sam sighs. “Nothing. This is just getting to me, man.”

“It’s getting to _you_?” Dean mutters, but he allows Sam to sit side-by-side, legs and shoulders touching. Sam eases him down on his pillow and closes his eyes for him.

“Just sleep for a while. I got this.”

Sam’s hand burns on his shoulder long after he falls asleep.

 

:::

 

Dean wakes up the next morning to the cold feel of metal around his wrist. He rolls over and squints as he hears the clinking of the handcuff against the bedpost.

“Uh, Sam?”

Sam’s sitting at the table on his laptop. Again. Dean’s starting to wonder if he dreamt Sam sitting next to him last night.

_”Sam.”_

A grunt.

“This is kinky and all, but is there a reason why you attached me to the bedpost?” 

Sam turns and glares at him, and Dean is almost struck by the anger in his eyes.

“You want to know why? Seriously?”

“Um. Yeah?”

“Because you’re doing it. You’re messing with the salt lines.”

“No. No way. Why would I?”

Sam blows out a breath. “Oh, I don’t know.”

“What? That doesn’t make any fucking sense. Come on, get me out of here! You’re starting to piss me off.”

“How about,” Sam starts, getting up from the table and heading toward the bed, “we just don’t do salt lines at all? That’s what you want?”

“What? No!”

Sam snarls a bit before rooting through his pocket and tossing a key on the bed. “I’m starting to get really sick of this shit, Dean.”

Dean slowly lifts up the key and picks the lock, rubbing his wrist. He’s getting sick of this shit, too.

But he’s not sure what Sam wants him to say.

 

:::

 

Sam ends up handcuffing him the next night, too, while Dean bitches and complains. He gives in eventually, though; Sam will realize it’s not him when the salt lines keep getting broken even while he’s handcuffed here.

Sam also insists on sitting on the bed next to him again, and he flips through the channels mindlessly as Dean falls asleep.

“Aw, aren’t you two sweet.”

Dean wakes up feeling smothered, and he wiggles around under the dead weight that is pinning him down to the bed. It’s hot, so hot, and he’s sweating a little, his t-shirt sticking to his skin. Sam’s dead asleep, nearly on top of him, and he manages to worm his way out from underneath him. 

The movement tears at the wound on his arm, and he hisses – he’s almost surprised that it hasn’t healed already, but then again, Alastair made him do this to himself. It wasn’t like the other times when Alastair did it personally.

“Do you really think there’s a difference?” Alastair says scathingly, but he’s smiling, a slow smirk that only shows teeth. “Do you really think it matters if I do it or if you do it?” 

Dean’s good hand curls in the blanket and he clutches it between his fingers.

“You left a piece of you down there, remember?” Alastair says quietly. “You really think it’s in a little box for safekeeping? It’s the small scrap of you that I have left, and I’m making good use of it until I get the rest of you back.” 

Dean doesn’t answer; he rolls over, back near Sam, and buries his face in Sam’s side until he can feel Alastair’s presence start to dissolve away.

“But I left a small piece of myself in you, as well.” 

His eyes pop open again, but Alastair’s long gone.

 

:::

 

Sam should feel bad about leaving his brother handcuffed to the bed, but he doesn’t trust Dean. He’s only going to be gone for fifteen minutes, half an hour max, and he’ll probably get back before Dean even wakes up.

Juggling the bag of food and two cups of coffee, Sam manages to unlock the door, and he kicks it open with his feet and uses his back to keep the door propped open as he slips inside.

And promptly drops everything. 

He distantly feels pain as the scalding hot coffee splashes over his legs, but he’s not paying attention to that.

“Hey Sammy,” Dean says with a crooked smile. “Jus’ hold on a sec, I think I’ve almost got it.”

Sam’s mouth is dry, and his feet are cemented to the floor, and he wants to scream.

“Why do you look so upset?” Dean asks absent-mindedly. “I’ll just be a minute. And everything will be fine.”

_”Dean,”_ Sam manages to croak out. “Dean. Stop.”

“What?” Dean asks curiously. “I’m fixing it.”

  “You’re not,” Sam whispers. “You’re really not. Here, give me the knife.”

Dean stops for a second, and Sam watches the blood – Dean’s blood – drip steadily from the blade.

“I’m fixing it, Sammy,” Dean repeats, sounding dazed. “Just give me a second.”

“Put it down, man. Please.”

“I’m fixing it.”

“Dean. You’re bleeding. A lot. Stop for a second, and I can help you.”

“I’m fixing it.”

Sam approaches him slowly, as if he were a skittish colt. Keeping his hands up and in sight, he gets on his knees but makes sure he’s not so close that he’ll scare Dean. “How did you get out of the handcuff?”

“Had to bend my wrist a little,” Dean says, almost in a trance, and he rolls his head to look at the limb in question. Sam follows his gaze, and his nausea increases; Dean’s wrist is bent, yes, but it’s clearly broken, his thumb almost touching his forearm. 

“Looks like you broke it a little, Dean.”

“Hmm?” Dean answers, and he squints a bit and shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Come on, man. Put down the knife so I can get you cleaned up and get that wrist taken care off. You’ll have a hard time holding a gun if it heals wrong because you didn’t get it looked at.”

“Just a second. I’ve almost got it.”

“Got what?”

Dean picks up the knife again and continues to dig into his thigh, and Sam nearly gags as he hears the tip of the blade scrape against his femur. 

“It’s okay, Sam,” Dean hums as he pulls his skin and muscle apart to peer in his leg. “I’m not going to nick the femoral artery or anything. It’ll just be a second. I’m fixing it.”

“Damn it, if you say that one more fucking time –“ Sam cuts himself off and takes a deep breath. He clenches his fists but remains still, not wanting to startle his brother while he’s holding a knife.

“Hmm,” Dean mumbles, and he lets go of his thigh with a slurp. “Doesn’t look like it’s in there. Maybe…” the knife slowly trails up to his chest, and he begins to press it ever so slightly, just enough that he starts to tear through his shirt.

That’s it, Sam thinks, and with one quick movement he’s got Dean’s wrist in one hand and twists it just enough that Dean yells and drops the knife. Sam’s immediately saturated with his brother’s blood, and he feels sick as Dean screams himself hoarse and thrashes against him, trying to throw him off. 

“Get off! I just needed a minute! I’m fixing it!”

Sam just bits his lip, so tightly that it draws blood, and he starts to lose track of which blood is his and which is Dean’s as Dean claws at his arm. Sam keeps him pressed flat to the ground as Sam kicks the knife away, under the bed, where Dean can’t reach it.

Dean can only fight weakly for less than a minute, incredibly weak from blood loss. “Sam, please,” he says faintly. “Let me go. I have to – I have to –“

Sam shakes his head. “No. You’re not going to do anything. _Stop._ Just stop.”

“But if – if I get it out,” Dean whispers. “I won’t see him again. I mean. I don’t think. But I can’t – I can’t -”

“Shh,” Sam mutters. “Just calm down. How about you give _me_ a minute, and I’ll fix it.”

Dean’s eyes light up despite the pallor of his face, and he manages a grin, lips crackled and bleeding, and he gives up struggling and lays flat on the ground with his arms held out. It’s a crucifixion pose, Sam thinks dimly.

“You’ll find it,” Dean sighs, closing his eyes as that frightening smile grows. “M’ chest, maybe. Or –“ he grapples at his throat, leaving a bloody hand print in his wake. Sam stares, horrified, and has no idea where to even begin.

“I’ll give you a minute, Sammy. You’ll fix it.”


End file.
